climb is all we know
by effies-scrapbook
Summary: The war never really ends, not really. — Effie during the Rebellion, and healing. Mainly Hayffie, some Everlark. M for sex, violence, substance abuse, and language.


**climb is all we know**

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**tw: **implications of self-harm and suicide attempt, mentions of rape (not-graphic) and torture (semi-graphic; will be a continuing motif throughout), substance abuse, strong language, and consensual sexual situations. read at risk.

* * *

Effie Trinket is thirty-four but she looks forty-five and feels eighty. It's when she spills her water on accident — three day's worth, unfortunately — and sums up the courage to look at herself in the murky pool, that she realizes this.

She isn't pretty, but they've got her feeling like she never was. The Capitol's sweetheart, sex symbol and poster child for the city's cosmetic metropolitan, has been washed with her own blood and sweat and tears; powdered makeup and red lipstick has been replaced with a swollen face and chapped lips, and a toned, slender figure has been replaced with a skeleton with skin clinging to her bones like spandex. It's gruesome and a bit disheartening, really. From the tallies they've etched on her skin (a calendar, if you will), she's been here for four weeks and it's been too long.

She isn't dying, but she might as well be.

And there's always a lynchpin in an uprising, maybe a group of people with plans years old or a person with a brilliant, beautiful mind, but she is not one of them. Her crime is a simple one — conspiracy against the Capitol, as with the rest of the living tributes and escorts and mentors. Her cell block is shared with Peeta and the other surviving tributes of the Quell, but her cell is farther off and she doubts they know it's her. The rooms are soundproof when they want it to be, and the only person they don't touch is Annie because she's fragile and there's no victory in breaking something so delicate.

The lot of them — they sing like a goddamn choir whenever the Peacekeepers want them to, and it's not beautiful but it's something. The cracks of barbed whips and the buzz of electricity and the hushed moans of men with lust oozing out of every pore are mere accompaniment to this hell they have created.

(One day, she thinks, they have yanked Enobaria's golden tooth out so that they can have their way with her.)

Effie, unfortunately, has been their favorite plaything for a long time now. Her cell is livable, she supposes — sure, it's cold and metallic and sucks all mental stimulation out of her, but there's a toilet and a real bed and they mop the floor of her blood when it gets too much.

But there's a game they love to play and it's to see how much they can bend her before she breaks, how much skin they can take off of her before she convulses into sobs, how much they can prod her before she passes out, how much they can fuck her until she gives up.

Being a traitor is an inglorious thing, perhaps, but it makes her all the more desired.

**.**

They etch the two month mark into her back the night they bring her to Peeta's cell.

(It's one of sixty scars she'll never really lose)

The boy doesn't recognize her right away, partly because her face is not painted and partly because her face is yellowing from the bruises, but nonetheless he screams in absolute anger.

"She's innocent!" he shouts, voice raw with unbidden rage and fear. He struggles against his shackles, his protests growing louder, more desperate, more incoherent as the Peacekeeper behind her presses a gun at the base of her neck. "Please!" he pleads, his body slumping to the floor as he reaches for her with his free hand.

Effie's vision blurs with tears as the cool surface of the barrel touches her back. Faintly, she sees Peeta, his body as tired and wiry as hers, mirroring her own moves: knees bent on the floor, hands trembling, chest wrought with sobs. This is it. This is the end.

And she wants to tell Peeta that she's sorry, that he deserved so much better, that if she could, she'd want a son like him, but her mouth runs dry and her tears make everything messier.

_Bang_.

_Bang_.

Her ears ring as she collapses underneath the sudden pressure in her head.

She's not dead and the bullets were never there; they fire blanks at her and she thinks, as they begin to kick her down, that she wouldn't have really minded dying.

**.**

Threadbare and listless, the days grow longer and her strength is stretched too thin. About thirty-three tallies later, she coughs up blood and wheezes at night. Somehow, she becomes responsible for three deaths of her tormentors and the punishments become few and far between but even worse when they occur.

The fact that they keep her alive is perhaps the most painful of all.

**.**

The rebels come one day, but they do not take her.

It's maybe summer or maybe it's autumn (the seasons don't change two stories below the Earth) when they come, and it's Gale Hawthorne at the head with an entourage of soldiers behind him. Bullets fly, the tributes are accounted for, and Peeta is sedated before he can really tell them that she's here too.

She doesn't remember much, being completely honest, because she is dying and she's tired and there's no point anymore. The only thing that stands out — and after they leave, for the four weeks she has before they rescue her again, she still thinks about it — is Gale, a gun slung over his shoulder, passing by her cell for a few moments. She remembers that he looked like a perfect soldier, hardened with war and ardent, unyielding, and that he stopped right in front of her. She had lifted her head slightly, puzzled at the commotion, though she knew somewhere in her frazzled mind what was happening. He looked at her straight in the eyes and did not waver.

For one second, she thought she saw hatred. And for another, she thought she saw pity. But time was running out for them and they had to go, and like a good soldier he turned away and marched on.

Effie forgets to cry about this, if only because she isn't surprised.

**.**

For the next month she is largely left alone.

The Peacekeepers almost abandon her cell block, only coming to feed her twice a week. She spends the month in solitude. Apparently, all reason to keep her alive has been extinguished; so it seems, even the Rebels do not want her.

And still, she persists they will come back.

**.**

There are one hundred and twenty-three scars on her skin when they finally rescue her. The prison has been wiped — political prisoners saved (the dozen left, that is), the remaining Peacekeeprs killed or deserted, leaving rats to swarm the corpses left to rot. They find her a skeleton, her ribs like a cage left to rust, her hips like little knives under her skin. She looks like a fucking mosaic, she thinks. She is the Capitol doll remodeled: blues and blacks and reds and yellows cover her pallid skin like she's a canvas and her pain is paint. A far cry from beautiful for sure, but damn it, it's something.

The drug they use to put her under sears through her veins like a poison. Her screams come out in laughs when they tell her that she might make it, and she curls on her side when she realizes that she will not die.

**.**

She wakes up nearly three days later and she wants to count the scars on her back to make sure that this is not a dream.

Her hospital room is white and sterile, so unlike her cell, so much like Heaven as in those banned books her grandmother read to her in whispers; is she — no, she's not dead. There's no one but a nurse and a young girl in her room, and both are busy with clipboards and vials of medicine. Almost immediately, Effie tries to get up, wary of the IV in her arm and the cuffs around her wrists, and panic washes over her when she sees the words District Thirteen written in the poster in front of her. The nurse lifts her head when she hears the EKG beeping faster, and when she notices that Effie is struggling against her restraints, she nearly runs over.

"Miss Trinket—" the nurse says calmly as she rushes to Effie's side. There's a rustle of fabric as the nurse leans over to subdue her, which only feeds to the chaos.

In her peripheral, Effie sees the girl turn and walk towards her, a syringe full of what looks to be morphling in her hand. As she comes closer, the former escort recognizes the girl: Primrose Everdeen. The young girl begins, edging towards her and pushing the nurse away gently, "Miss Effie—!"

"Prim, Prim," Effie whispers under her breath, desperation leaking out of her words. Under her handcuffs, she reaches for her, tears trailing down her sunken cheeks as she manages a cracked, "Where am I?"

"You're safe," Prim says with a small smile.

Distantly, Effie feels the morphling absorb all her panic and pull her under a cloud of serenity. Effie sighs, her heartbeat reverting back to a safe pace, mumbling, "Thank you."

Prim hums a quiet "it's no problem," and reaches down and unlocks her handcuffs, Effie's wrists raw and her scars reddening slightly upon release. The escort settles back into the bed, and without meaning to, she asks, "Where's your sister? Peeta?"

"Katniss is on a mission to the Capitol, along with Peeta and Finnick," Prim says as she fixes the sheets around Effie's tiny body.

Finnick. The name is familiar to Effie, and then she remembers — the victor from District Four, a friend, an ally. Pieces of pre-prison life float back to her as Prim rambles on about life in District Thirteen. The small mentions of Rebellion from Plutarch that she had picked up on. The planning around the revolution. The Victory Tour. Her brother and his wife having their second child. Her father dying. The Quell. The explosion.

Effie licks her lips when a name comes to her. "Where's Haymitch?"

Prim looks up suddenly, then says slowly, "He's uh — he's taking care of the mission with Katniss. I think he'll be back tonight, but I doubt you'll be awake."

"I've been sleeping for three months now, Prim, I don't need any more," Effie whispers, and her words come out bitter when she hadn't wanted them to.

The girl doesn't really say much in reply, sans a feeble, "Haymitch will be glad that you are awake."

**.**

Haymitch comes in silently. She almost doesn't notice, if not for his feet bumping against the bed and his bag falling from his shoulders and onto the floor. There isn't a heartwarming hello, nor are there tears on either of their cheeks, but rather a silence perpetuated by the both of them. She sits straighter and he moves forward just a bit, but nothing is too sudden or too soft for this moment.

Effie is unsure how to go about this. She's positive that he doesn't, either.

"You're — "

"I'm — "

They stop short to let the other finish.

Haymitch wets his lips as he turns his head slightly to look outside the window. She follows his gaze, staring but not really looking at the medics and patients moving in such a flurry that her mind registers it as a blur. Effie watches his jaw clench tight, the muscles taut under his stubble.

"You're awake," he says finally.

"I'm awake," she confirms.

"Are you — " he begins, but then shakes his head. "Peeta was really torn up about you being left behind. When he comes back — if he comes back — I think you two should talk."

For the first time in the longest time, Effie has no idea what to say. "Okay," she attempts, but there's too many things between them that have to be said and both of them are avoiding it. Uncomfortably, she shifts in the bed. "Is that all you want to say?" she asks.

He laughs, but it's not the same, not really. "Fuck if I know." Shaking his head, he gestures to the space beside her , "Can I?"

"Go ahead."

A silence falls once again. She stiffens all too noticeably when he accidentally brushes up against her.

"Do you — "

"Did it — "

Again, they trap themselves in the inability to get their timing down. She continues, eyeing him warily, "Did it ever occur to you that there was a possibility that I might've died?"

(She doesn't watch him when he sighs, but she knows that it is because she is right.)

Haymitch waits awhile before he finally decides on what to say. "It did. And I'm sorry."

"I ought to hate you," she tells him.

"You ought to hate me," he echoes.

"Haymitch," she says impatiently, "Do you even know what they _did_ to me?"

The shrug he gives is noncommittal and nonchalant. His eyes tell a different story, though. "I read your file, sweetheart. It ain't the prettiest fairytale I've read, no."

"So — "

"I'm really sorry, Effie, I really am."

**.**

Four days later, Prim tells her she can check out of the hospital, because although her scars are lengthy and abundant, they've healed. Those one hundred twenty-three scars that occupy the space between her shoulder blade and her spine are not crimson with rage but paled with healing; in a year, they'll be just lines, and in several, they might completely fade.

They don't talk about the word "traitor" branded into her skin. They don't mention the jagged, ugly thing that runs along her ribs. Those will never heal completely, never leave her, but she supposes there should be a constant in her life. Prim's dainty fingers trace over the horizontal scars that have faded over Effie's wrist — memories of a night too long and too painful for anyone to live in wash over her.

The cell might be gone, but she never really leaves.

**.**

She ends up across the hall from Haymitch, and they give her a day to adjust before she's off to the grind.

It's not really freedom in District 13. It's more of a routine, strict and rigorous, that dictates an entire life in a span of twenty-four hours; there is no room to breathe between the chores, but she supposes that's a good thing for her.

The people here don't like her. Sunken, heavily-lidded eyes, clothes too baggy, a body that makes her look like a coat hanger, scars that zig-zag her arms — these do not faze them, because after all, this is what she deserves. She trudges on anyway, working the kitchen half-heartedly, eating like she's been starved, and utilizing her rest time with Prim and Annie, who tells her that she is pregnant with Finnick's child. Johanna is not as warm as Annie but less cold at the same time. Effie tries her best avoids her, but Thirteen is small and there's only so much time you can spend holing yourself up in your bedroom. The victor makes it her job to mention how prettily she screams whenever they cross paths, but while it stings, it's oddly comforting, too. Effie remembers Johanna tried to make her laugh one night. She remembers that she did not succeed.

And Haymitch is, as strange as it is to her, busy with Katniss and the Rebellion, and on the off chance he's not, he spends his time with the other victors. She doesn't hate him for it — she should have known, after all this time, that he has never liked her, and why should he waste his time with her when he doesn't have to?

Effie has always wondered how it feels to be a machine without a purpose, to work without really wanting to.

(Not that she liked being an escort, but at least... She doesn't want to complete that thought.)

Now, she'd give anything to take this life away.

**.**

Waking up on her own accord is incredibly hard. Usually, it's because of these nightmares, the ones that are too vivid and too familiar and just too much. But tonight is a blessing, with no resurfaced memories and instead a simple dream of her being home with her parents and her brother and her nephews —

She remembers in the morning that her father is dead, her mother is a sympathizer, and her brother was killed just for fuckin' fun.

(And for conspiracy against the Capitol, too, but mostly just to see her break.)

And now it's four in the morning and she is alone in her economy-sized bedroom, in a nightie that is coarse against her coarser skin, terrified of going back to sleep because there's only so many blessings you can receive in a lifetime. Her feet lead her across the room, across the hall, into the cold and into Haymitch's bedroom where he is working. He isn't totally surprised that she is awake and here.

"About damn time, Princess," he says as he sets down the papers in his hands. He manages a smirk. "I got tired of hearing you scream."

Her eyes scatter all over the room and it's clean, for once. She lets her stare linger on the files on his desk and she sees hers underneath schedules and other things that don't seem to matter to him, or to her, either. She says nothing about it even though she so desperately wants to. Instead, she picks up her pace and almost (nearly) runs into him. Thankfully, he's already anticipating what she's doing (and has been wanting to do for a long time) and catches her when she falls into him.

Her fingers clutch at his stained shirt as he envelops her, arms encircling her whole, hands fisting the sides of her uniform like she might disappear. Faintly, she notes that her bones are not as fragile as she and him and everyone else thought.

"_Haymitch_ — I'm so tired," she murmurs, her words plummeting and plummeting from heights she never knew was there. He struggles to pick up the pieces that seem to crumble off her, and she's so, so tired to notice and so grateful for him.

"I know, I know," he says into her shoulder, where her hair is matted against her skin with her sweat and his tears. "I know, Effs, I'm so sorry."

He will never stop apologizing, she thinks, because between her being left behind twice and her never being quite the same for the rest of her life, there is a part of her that she'll never get back and he blames himself for it. One day, the banter will reoccur, the fights will begin again, and he will drink and she will nag — one day, but not today, and even then an apology will always go unsaid. He hugs her tighter, closer, and she starts to cry despite the fact that she thought she never would again.

**.**

"I think I'll name my son Finnick," Annie mentions to her and Johanna during lunch the day Finnick is killed in action. Effie freezes and the victor drops her fork and knife suddenly — people stare as Johanna stands up and towers over the recent widow.

"Your husband's fucking _dead_," Johanna screeches. Without another word, she spins and walks off, and Effie thinks she's crying but she's not sure.

Annie lets out a bated breath. "Well, Effie," she starts shakily, resting a hand over her protruding belly. "What do you think? What would you name your son?"

"Theodotus," Effie says after some thought. "After my brother. It means '_given by God_.'" She begins digging into her food again, a reason slipping from her lips, "He died, too."

Annie's eyes drop to her belly. "Do you believe in Him? God, I mean."

_God has left me_, she thinks.

Effie shakes her head slightly, hesitantly. "I did, once, a long time ago."

Annie hums in reply.

They finish their meals in silence and even though they should leave immediately after they're done, they linger on like ghosts. The cafeteria empties and then it's just them and the clock ticking down the minutes left of lunch.

"Theodotus Finnick Odair. It has a nice ring to it," Annie says finally. She muses softly, "Theo, for short. But the name is yours."

"Take it," Effie says suddenly, her eyes drooping closed, "I can't have kids."

The bell rings and they both divide without much words, but Annie grabs her shoulder comfortingly for a few seconds before Effie leaves for work.

**.**

One day, bombs explode in the sky like fireworks and Prim dies, after all that has been done for her.

Plutarch quite literally shoves her into a hovercraft and they go, because Katniss is there and Prim is dead and this isn't good. Haymitch holds her hand as Fulvia lists things that she has to do — _calm down Katniss, be normal, be you, dress up a_s —

"No," Effie says, shaking her head at the last request.

Fulvia lowers her clipboard slightly. "What do you mean, _no_?"

"I won't dress up like before. Katniss will hate me," Effie tells her, eyes widening at the thought. "_I_ will hate me."

"It will give Katniss some normalcy for once, Effie," Fulvia argues. She glances at Haymitch when she says, "And lest you forget what great lengths Plutarch and Haymitch went to convince Coin to lift your execution. Don't be ungrateful. We need you."

This, Effie did not know. She withdraws her hand from Haymitch's quietly and without much preamble; there will time to talk later, she decides. She notices Fulvia realize her mistake and cast her eyes back to her clipboard.

"_Please_," Fulvia whispers.

Haymitch reaches behind her and runs his fingers down her arm. "Fine," Effie says.

Satisfied, Fulvia accepts this and prattles on and on about other things, but either Effie chooses to not listen or it happens accidentally. A fury unravels within her, because damn it, she doesn't want the colors anymore — not now, not ever. The only thing she notices is Haymitch's lips pressing against the side of her temple, softly and gently, like the world's burning and she's the only one left. She leans into him and waits for her breathing to even. There will be time to talk later.

**.**

Snow's wife's spare room is empty and this is where Plutarch brings her to get dressed. The rebels who rescued her had found her dress that she wore the day she was arrested and brought it with her — Fulvia managed to scrub the stains out and it is almost as good as new.

Sans the fact that it doesn't fit Effie quite right, but whatever.

"I want you to know that I think you look beautiful," Plutarch announces as he zips up the back of her dress. His fingers brush against a few of the tallies left on her shoulder before he pats her back encouragingly. She lifts her eyes and watches him through the mirror, then settling her eyes on her own. The bags that tell of sleeplessness must go, and the glaring scars and nearly-healed bruises must be covered up. She reaches for the makeup that Fulvia brought with her and begins to paint her face, slowly at first, then comfortably again.

"Thank you, Plutarch," she murmurs as she pats her face with foundation.

"You father would've been extraordinarily proud," he tells her. Stepping back to let her continue, he turns to observe the frames that hang on the walls.

"Did you know," Effie says cautiously, "that Theodotus is dead?"

Plutarch bows his head for a moment. "Yes. What a shame to waste a brilliant mind."

"Was he really part of the Rebellion?"

The former Gamekeeper, like the man he is, only shakes his head pitifully. Effie inhales deeply and pushes the overwhelming sorrow away, as far as she could, because today she will not spill tears for the dead. She lines her eyes with fluorescent colors and applies gold to her lips, somewhat sad that her mask is back on.

"I'll be out, Euphemia," Plutarch says softly.

(It really pains her that this man is the only sort of family she has left.)

**.**

Katniss is surprised to see her, but then again, it's because she's not really supposed to be alive. Effie goes on with the lines she used before — it's a big, big, big day, and that there's a schedule to follow and oh! She'll be right back.

The moment the door shuts behind her, she slams her fists against a wall and she wants nothing but to wipe this shit off her face and go home.

**.**

Haymitch accidentally brushes up against her when he exits the room full of victors, like he wanted to avoid her but couldn't.

"You voted yes," she accuses. She backs him up against a wall, her fingers jabbing him in the chest as her nails dig into her skin. "You fucking voted _yes_."

It is the first time she curses at him, or at anyone really, and it makes her feel empowered.

"I did what's best, Princess," he sneers, grabbing her wrist and pulling her off him, throwing her to the side. Something deplorable is evident in his expression and she wants to tear his face off right then and there.

"This isn't what's best, this is _revenge_," she says in an angry sob, spitting the last word out like poison. She presses her hand against her face and screams, "This is not what the war was about!"

"Why do you care?" he yells back, spinning around to meet her halfway. He points at something beyond her and laughs mirthlessly, "You can't even fucking have kids, Trinket."

This hits her like goddamn train going faster than the speed of light and it hurts so, _so_ bad. The tears flow freely now, and something like regret flashes in his eyes and he looks like he wants to take it back. It's not in his character to, though, and instead he walks away.

She throws the nearest thing at him — a book, as it is — and screams after him, "I have a nephew, you son of bitch!"

(When he's gone, she slumps to the floor and sobs and sobs until Plutarch finds her a mess.)

**.**

Coin is killed and Effie wants to scream.

Haymitch takes Katniss away and Peeta is left behind, guards pushing past him and people pulling at him in the chaos. Effie rushes for him, heels be damned and left on the sidewalk. He is startled when she yanks on the sleeve of his jacket, but then she is immediately met with his arms around her and his voice shaken with joy the moment she pulls them into an alley

"Thank God," he tells her, "_Thankgodthankgodthankgod_."

"Peeta—"

"I thought you were dead."

Effie withholds a dry sob and cradles the back of his head, moving to accommodate him against her chest. The boy shrinks ten sizes smaller and she holds him tighter, and the both of them crumble like pastries in an alleyway in the City Circle. She sinks her lips into his hair and she feels like he is an orphan she's been left to take care of.

(When her bracelet slips down her forearm as he sobs against her, she realizes that he really is.)

"I'm here," she says shakily. "It's okay, Peeta, I'm here."

He only pulls her in closer in response.

**.**

"I'm glad you're doing okay," Peeta says quietly. He sips his coffee timidly and adds, "Do you have trouble sleeping, too?"

"Yes, of course," she whispers back.

"You had it worse than me—I shouldn't..." he says, shaking his head. "I'm sorry I couldn't do anything about it."

"I'm sorry you had to watch," she murmurs softly. She lifts her eyes and stares at her victor cautiously, like he was made of glass and she would break him with a single word. "You deserved so much better," she echoes her last sentiment with a smile.

He mirrors her gesture. "You did, too."

**.**

Effie lingers in her room at Thirteen and waits for nothing in particular. Her bags are packed and she is due for the Capitol in a few hours; Katniss's trial is nearing its end and she hasn't seen anybody worthwhile since the death of the two presidents. Once, she saw Annie on her way to the train station, but there was nothing new to say other than a goodbye and a promise of a visit. Peeta was somewhere in therapy, Katniss was in solitude confinement, Plutarch was busy redesigning the country, and Haymitch was not someone she'd want to talk to at the moment.

(This is a lie.)

There was no one left she loves, she thinks as she downs leftover whiskey from the aforementioned mentor's bedroom.

And as if it was a godsend, someone knocks on her door and she has to wonder who would be up at three in the morning. She already knows the answer before she even opens the door.

"Haymitch," she breathes.

"Princess," he begins a bit too coarsely, too roughly but it's just like before and she savors it. He stumbles into her room and it occurs to her that he might be a little drunk. She doesn't care, if only because she is, too. Effie closes the door behind her and she knows that there's no going back from this point on.

"I'm fuckin' drunk right now, but not enough to think that this is a good idea," he finishes, and he grabs her by the waist and pulls her against him. He leans his forehead against hers, their lips this close but not close enough, and she's sick of it and sick of him and damnit, she's so tired of being tired. So she musters up whatever courage is left in her and pushes him against the wall, her lips falling onto his like he was her misplaced gravity.

He fists the silk that separates her body from his as she grinds her hips against his. Coyly, she lets her hand slip to the front of his pants and smiles against his kiss when he parts his lips in a moan. Suddenly, he takes her by the forearms and flips her so that she's the one pinned against the wall; a sigh seeps out of her parted mouth as he buries his lips into her neck and his fingers into her heat.

"Bed," she whispers as he works her into a rhythm.

He complies, picking her up so that her legs are wrapped around his middle and his lips are hard on hers. Her back hits the mattress and he swallows her gasp with a kiss; somehow, their clothes are off and she is pressed naked against him. Haymitch eyes her with curiosity, like she is the eighth wonder in the world and that she would be his undoing. Seam grey meets a faded blue, and she wants to tell him that she loves him even though she's not really sure.

"You're better blonde," he says with a smile before he trails kisses down her stomach, her hips, her thighs.

Instinctively, like she's ashamed of it, she covers up the branded word that marks her left rib like a burden, and instantly, he pulls her hand away. "Don't," he mumbles as he devours her whole. "You're fine as you are, Princess."

She'd argue, but it comes out in a moan and she probably could break his neck with her legs if she's not careful.

He climbs back over her and tells her sweet nothings in her ear, but they register as stars and galaxies and wonderful things as he pushes inside her. And when they fall from their high, he kisses her sweetly, soberly, and she wonders with languor if either of them were really drunk in the first place.

**.**

"I leave in three hours," Effie tells him.

"I leave in _two_," he challenges.

Her bare back is against his chest and she wants him closer than they are now. He dips down and kisses her shoulder and she feels like she'll burst into tears at any moment, but right now is not the time for crying or goodbyes. There will be time later.

"Why are you going back to the Capitol?" he asks as he moves his thumb in lazy circles on her taut stomach. He shifts so that they're both comfortable, and idly, he waits for a reply.

She doesn't have a good reason, but she tries. "Because the Capitol is home, in the end."

"They hate you," Haymitch tells her.

"They all hate me," she challenges.

"I don't."

Words fail her when she attempts to say something that he deserves to hear. So instead, she turns in his arms and cradles his cheek in her hand. She runs her thumb across the contours of his face, and it's like she's a mapmaker and he is uncharted territory. Effie presses her lips against his for good measure.

(There will be time to talk later, she decides as they drift off to sleep.)

**.**

When she wakes, he's already gone.

There's not really a better way, anyway.

**.**

Capitol life is not as golden as it once was.

The people seem to know that she is a godforsaken traitor and they make it their job to point it out when they could. She holes up with Fulvia and Plutarch — outcasts, too, but at least they have each other as weird as it is — and she has never wanted to leave more than she does now.

"You suffocate here," Plutarch tells her during dinner one night. "You need to leave if you want to be happy."

"Where would I even go?"

He shrugs. "I hear Haymitch is lonely, too."

**.**

It's not a surprise to anyone when she arrives in District Twelve. Peeta takes her home — to Haymitch, actually, but it's all the same. She finds him surrounded by geese in the afternoon, cursing at the damned birds and utterly giving up on feeding them. And when he looks up at her, she almost stops breathing, as stupidly lovesick as it is. She walks and walks and runs; he catches her, and he clutches her closer like she would dare to disappear.

**.**

"...one hundred twenty three," he finishes counting, his fingers remaining on her lower back, lingering on the last scar before he circles his arms around her.

"On hundred twenty-three," she confirms. "One hundred twenty-three days in hell," she adds bitterly.

"I'd kill the men who did this to you," he offers, but it's a piss-poor attempt at comfort and he knows it.

She pulls his hand to her lips. "_Fuck them_," she murmurs into his skin.

"Princess," he says to her, sighing into the crook of her neck. "I think I'm in love with you."

**.**

The war never really ends, not really, but Katniss and Peeta marry, have kids, and those kids grow older right before their eyes. Miracles are made in District Twelve and it's happy, satisfyingly so.

Effie and Haymitch do not have this ending. The are too old for marriage and too old for children; instead, they fight over curtains and the geese and the cat she accidentally adopts a couple years after she moves in. He drinks and she nags, and sometimes, on particularly bad days, she drinks with him.

Effie relearns to grow into her regular pace. Everyday is movement after movement after movement, and gradually, she fills herself with her old self — the schedules, the useless chatter, the fawning over the kids and later, their kids. Sometimes, she pauses. When she opens the cupboard to make hot chocolate for the eldest Mellark. When she takes the cat to the marketplace and her fingers skim over the spice she needs for the stew. When she nightmares and she stays in bed for the entire day in complete, deafening silence. When Haymitch kisses her neck by the fire and she is seized with crippling fear over absolutely nothing. Sometimes she pauses and she is thrown back into the cell and forced to relive things she'd rather leave behind. But most of the time, it's good and it's happy and she carries Rosie Mellark on her hip, holds her hand, drives her to school, takes her to the Capitol, and watches her marry someone. And again with Caleb, the boy.

Haymitch never completely heals either, but he's stopped sleeping with a knife and started sleeping with her — and, well, it works sometimes, and sometimes it doesn't. But it's worse off alone than with the other, so she stays. And while the war is never really over for them, it damn right feels better than before.

* * *

**A/N:** My writer's block faded around 3:25 AM and don't question why I was up when it's the start of winter break because lol. All mistakes are the product of sleeplessness and my damned need to publish something right away. Hayffie are my babies and Mama!Effie is like, my favorite thing ever. I sincerely hope this means I'm back on my hayffie grind, but, well, we'll see where my inspiration takes me. I love reviews, dearies, and I would appreciate one if you have the time! Thanks in advance!

**special thanks** — the math group chat because ily guys even though voulette and natalie might be the only ones who read this oh. also allonsysilvertongue's stories and misseffie's headcanons for fueling my desire to write hayffie again. and the ever-growing hayffie fandom deserves a special shoutout.

**footnote** — the title comes from my absolute favorite song in the world and it's called "wash." by bon iver. there's some unpopular opinions and such in the fic, notably the fact that hayffie never marries or make babies. also, and it's really really really vague here idk if you guys even picked up on it, but i made plutarch effie's uncle (by marriage) and decided to make their relationship a bit more ... reluctant familial (?) but nonetheless a close one. does that even make sense proBABALY NOT SORRY. and did i mention mama!effie warms my heart i love the idea that she and peeta are close omg. ok. enough footnote it's like 5 am and i won't reread this until after i publish s/o to future tori bYE.

**ps** — weird format is weird soz.


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